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Fourth
Prize, Bridport Prize
Competition, 1997
published in the Bridport Prize
Anthology, 1997
Time and Place
The map shows an old aerodrome a
few
miles to the north—that must
have been the one—
and the shoreline’s as he
described it; so
is the
village.
Is this
quaint or
what?
His
claim
that it all looked a little like
New England
is understandable: timber
houses, small grey waves
tripping over themselves, and
the grating sound
of shuffled shingle are all
familiar.
It
gives
her that craziest of ideas, the
one of having been
here before—as if knowledge of
a place
could be inherited—and,
standing in the lane
outside the boarded-up pub, she
can share space,
though not time, with a
fresh-faced G.I. in his swank
new officer’s uniform and an
adoring Suffolk girl,
sees a brief slice of light and
hears the clink
of glasses and snatches of Glenn
Miller that fall
out of the opening
door.
She watches
the young couple
leaving, arm in arm, and follows
up the track
past that tall, weird
house.
By the
windmill
they light cigarettes, laugh as
he tucks the pack
into her coat-front, then gently
make each other dumb
with
kisses.
From across
the Meare half-a-dozen geese
give raucous calls, strain into
the air and climb
ponderously, like overloaded
bombers, heading east.
John Godfrey
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